All
the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players;
They
have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,
His
acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling
and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then
the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face,
creeping
like snail Unwillingly to school.
And
then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad,
Made
to his mistress' eyebrow.
Then
a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and
quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation
Even
in the cannon's mouth.
And
then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe and beard of
formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And
so he plays his part.
The
sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch
on side, His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big
manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble,pipes
And
whistles in his sound.
Last
scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere
oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. |